Tony Award? Oh Yeah, It's In The Bag!

Last night was Spring Parent-Teacher conference time. I was going to write a list of 5 things you should never do the day of teacher conferences. But yesterday, I opened and read a letter from the IRS telling me my business is being audited and thought, well, my list was simply one entry: “Never open and read any letter from the IRS that same day.” So with the wired call to my CPA a fresh memory, and the realization that I was now fully awake and probably did NOT need the 5Hour Energy sample I’d ingested just minutes before said-letter, I was ready to head to the school. I really couldn’t tell why my heart was racing… the letter or the vita-shot or the fact that I was lined up for 4 teacher meetings in a row. In any event, I tried my best Lamaze breathing, which was tricky since I haven’t been pregnant ever. I adopted, so my whole Lamaze knowledge is from TV, like the way I kind of know the Miranda warning because I have my doctorate in Law &Order.

My teacher meetings last night were pure exercises in acting. In the midst of it all, I took solace that a career change into acting just may work, because I could clearly pull off emotions in front of a live audience that I was in no way feeling. Were I on Candid Camera, I would have been cut as the boring clip in which the woman was presumed comatose and showed no reaction. Don’t get me wrong~ on the inside I was 110% verklempt and ready to string my son up by his Chuck Taylors. But on the outside, I was cool, composed, and well, maybe talking just a wee bit faster that norm which is scary really since I already have the rapid fire Jersey-pace known and loved by Joe Pesci fans everywhere. But enough about Joe. This is about me. Joe can get his own blog. What follows is “Parent-Teacher Time: An Evening in Four Acts.” I’m submitting my performance for consideration next awards season. I’m so nominating myself for a Tony Award. I was that good.

Act One: Son2's Language Arts, Room 115
Have some small chat with teacher, and prepare to be handed “The Green Folder.” The Green Folder was its own artistic triumph, so much more than a mere prop or paper container. You see Son2 is highly artistic, so when faced with a green folder into which he was to place his papers this close to St Patrick’s Day, The Green Folder had to be crafted into a work of art on par with all great Irish creations… like the simplicity of St Brigid’s Cross, the beauty of Waterford, Guinness. And so my eyes were bright as I beheld it’s splendor and was then faced with page after page of jaw dropppingly bad grades hidden in the locker since Christmas. I wanted to drop The Green Folder like toxic waste, but that would tip off the teacher that I had NO clue he had these grades. What kind of parent doesn’t know her 5th grader is harboring these scores in his locker for 6 weeks, sharing only the 90’s. Son2~ your night was now in peril… not for the grades themselves, but rather for sweet talking me through the past few weeks and trying once again, as you did in 2nd grade, to sign the papers “for me.” As we said to you then: A) DON’T forge, and B) Don’t use crayon. It’s a big tip off. And yet I did not scream out “WTF!!!!” I remained calm, to maintain the appearance of a woman better informed, thus better aware. Did you see Helen Mirren in “The Queen”? I was that contained. Maybe just a touch of Pesci.

It was now time for the Son1 Teacher Trifecta…

Act Two: Son1's Social Studies, Room 105
This was the one I had dreaded. Knowing Son1 has been less than successful on his research for a large term paper, I was ready to discuss with/ pepper the teacher with questions about the lack of IEP adherence such as supply of written study guides and other supports leading to his grade unraveling from 95 to 60 in 2 months. Son1 clearly told me over and over again that all work was being done in school, none of this was take home, and he was right on top of things. The Child Study Leader was a little concerned since she had gotten radio silence from the teacher. How could you leave a kid with off the charts ADHD out to dry with nothing supplied in writing? So channeling Helen/Queen Elizabeth, I took my place. But this teacher had an ace up his sleeve for our meeting that threw me the minute I sat. He had Son1’s signature on form after form acknowledging he A) had the assignment instructions and B) hadn’t done the night’s homework. And Son1 really did sign them, not Son2 in crayon for him so I couldn’t even have the evidence thrown out. Right there, in print, proof Son1 was scamming me with every “uh, no Mr. W didn’t say we had any homework.” Or “uh, yeah, I’ve like got everything like in.” Uh~ like hell no! Do you know the dramatic skills required to look like Dame Helen when you really feel like Sigourney Weaver with the alien ripping out of her?!??! Tony, baby. I’m winning that puppy.

With a very hush-toned, “yes, of course, we’ll speak with Son1 regarding his homework,” I took my leave. Poker face in tact, 5Hour Energy in full heart-racing swing, documented proof I had 2 little weasels at home. And yet, we were only ½ way through the teacher meetings.

Act Three: Son1's Language Arts Room 106
The second stop on my Son1 tour brought me to the other teacher involved with the aforementioned way-past-deadline research term paper. To this teacher’s credit he has been very communicative so surprises were few. Not that they weren’t big. They were just smaller in number. I think it was somewhere in Room 106 I first felt my right eye twitching. Again, grace under fire was called for, and I rallied. I am of English-descent after all. We do that very well. Tossing aside my eye twitch to the teacher as “just some contact trouble,” I pushed on. He may have seen right through me, as he stared perplexed at my eyeglasses. I tried to do everything in my power to move calmly through the meeting, knowing the Math teacher was still looming.
I was so embarrassed to admit how much B.S. my sons had been throwing my way, I wanted to screech. How could this be happening? How could both of my kids so blatantly lie about why they were after school like I had done for years until my parents found out I had actually racked up in excess of 60 detentions the first 3 years of high school? (BTW, Mom, if you read that… just a little hyperbole on my part. I assure you, it really was just 10 like I copped to in 1986. Ahem) This is the crux of what was pissing me off: I was being PLAYED! And for the love of God, I of all people should have known the signs!

Act Four: Son1's Math, Room 107
Wishing they at least built 60 seconds between the conferences so I could run outside, scream, and run back in, I went on to my final stop. Another Lamaze breath series (at least the way Rachel did when she had Ross’s baby), and I sat down. I was greeted with, “Yes, Son1 can be a challenge and we do need to talk...” (Dear God, is that my left eye twitching now?) “…but by and large he’s doing well and there are no real surprises.” Au contraire, mon amie, for that alone was a surprise. For the final time that night, I was forced into the acting craft. You see, to indicate relief would have tipped my hand there that I expected anything other good news.
I stood, politely thanked the Math teacher taking the deepest yet most subtle cleansing breathes I could and took my leave. While jonesing to peel back my own face in anger, my icy performance only needed to extend until I was out of ear shot. I held it together until off school grounds to serve as my encore. And then, it was complete. (drop curtain, enjoy applause)

This Pesci-paced, eye twitching, livid mother returned home to the comfort of my home. What was all that noise and shouting you heard coming from my home after I entered, you ask? I assure you, just the cheers and screams of my adoring fans. Really. I promise.

Nothing good ever comes from the full name

Nothing good ever comes from answering my phone and hearing my formal name. Professionally I use my maiden name, so the second I pick up the phone to, "Uh, hello, Mrs. L... ," I know, no good awaits. It could be a discipline issue. It could be the umpteenth request for a volunteer gig. Sometimes it's the school nurse reporting that someone's braces broke. It's not that I wish orthodontic ill on my kids, it's just the nurse's voice doesn't raise hair on my neck like the principal's.

The boys changed schools this year and all appears to be going swimmingly. The IEP's seem to be adhered to as best as any school I've heard of, friendships are being forged, grades have been good. "WOW!" I thought last night when looking at the upcoming teacher conference schedule, "I'm kinda looking forward to this for once." And then this morning, it happened. "Mrs L....? Uh, good morning." Groooaaan. Why don't I keep a flask at work?

"Oh alright. What did Son1 do now," I fretted. My 12 year old is a continuing source for school calls, so his Social Studies teacher on my phone was unwelcome, but not a surprise. Five minutes into telling me how many homework assignments he's been skipping, I blurted out, "but we just met with his IEP case manager and none of this came up? How could (Son1) have 5 zeros and we're just hearing it?" (insert confused labrador head turn) "Um, no, I do not teach him. I teach (Son2)." This was about the point where I felt like Mother of the Year AGAIN. For not only did I jump to the conclusion one child pulled a stunt only to be surprised, it was clear to the Social Studies teacher that I didn't know my kid's teachers' names.

I could hear his mental tsk tsk through phone line. Give me a break pal, we're all getting used to the new school, and the hubs saw you on back to school night. We were among the massive group of 10 parents in the room. I'm involved. It's just Son1 has been the source of over 70% of this blog. The mind leaps. I tried to chalk it up to that annoying habit of flipping kids' names while speaking, the way I always call Son2 by Son1's name, or my husband reverses his daughters' names. I even chuckled about calling Son2 by the dog's name. He either didn't care, didn't think it was funny, or had 13 other parent calls to make. Or all three. After I got off the phone and reflected, I had two valuable takeaways:

1) Trust no one
2) Learn caller ID for individual classrooms vs. the office

WTH do those have to do with the above? Well, for starters, Son2's been skating I realized. He bats those big blue eyes at me and I'm so mesmerized by the lashes I would never have that I believe what he says. I'm much more skeptical of his brother who has the iffy reputation from school years past. "Is your homework done?" "Yes" (So I check, and it is.) But that only works if the homework planner is written out. It seems Son2 has decided homework on elections, is, in and of itself, elective. NO. Trust no one to fess up to selective homework, even when so cute you'd think they'd never lie.

And what of the fancy schmancy online interface the school has to post everything from lunch menus for the next six years to tonight's homework? Trust no one when it comes to schools actually enforcing procedures. In an attempt to show this man I was not a totally detached mom, I went on line while talking and saw, YET AGAIN, there was no homework posted. Nothing entered = nothing displayed (does not) = no homework. No, it just equals a teacher who shared with me "yeah, I don't really use the homework page. I've been teaching a long time, and my students have always had it posted on the board, so I don't use it. I wouldn't bother looking there." Can you think of EVER saying this to a boss, a client, a colleague? Thanks to NJ's teacher tenure laws, the district stands zero chance of enforcing that teachers use the tools. But I digress. Son2 has no tenure protection. And for this morning's "trick or treat" phone call, Son2, be afraid.

As to the caller ID... There's a pecking order in parent phone calls. Had I known the number was not the office number, I may have eased a bit. When you go from teacher call to Vice Principal, there's an uptick in subject matter. Bump to Principal, and you have a definite escalation. Get a call from the Superintendent, and you're at parental DEFCON 5, war game buzzers tripping on your cell phone. I think there's an app for that. Had I known it was but a lowly classroom, I would have felt a little better. I would have listened, but without the palpitations. Homework lapse or test bombs may be waiting, but generally, nothing that ends with the phrase, "in the next occurrence, law enforcement may be called."

So from now through, oh, the end of college I suppose, I will not assume poor effort from Son1 and great effort from Son2. I'll be on guard for Mr. Social Studies-skipper. And I have a plan for the phone # screening. Election day is coming next week, and I'll have the chance to be in the school. I wonder if they'd notice me going room to room to test call my cell? Armed with all those incoming numbers, I could easily prioritize the calls to take. Maybe I'll bring donuts and pretend to hand them out to the teacher, VP and principal to get to their desks. You know, I'd be all, "job well done, Mr. Whoever the Hell you are!"- then quick stealth call. It could work.

Why 3-Ring Binders Are Giving Me a Buzz

At 8:30 this morning, I began one of the happiest tasks of my entire year. It’s a seasonal joy that ranks up there with trimming the Christmas tree, planting the Spring flowers, or stocking the beach bag. I am bursting with a joy that needs to be shared. I organized the back-to-school-supplies! I think I have a buzz.

A few years ago, Staples had a commercial that became an instant classic. You probably know the one I mean, with Andy Williams singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” as a dad gleefully filled the cart. Yeah. Right now I’m that dad. Between rotating camp schedules, kids who think they should be entertained 24/7, and every pop-up road trip being marred by record-level road construction, I’m done. I love summer. LOVE it. Always have. But now I am embracing September as the perfect month. I’ll jack up the heat and whirl up a margarita if I need a summery smile. I gotta tell ya it would have to be some pretty solid Cuervo to make me feel as giddy as I do this moment writing Son1’s name on 27 places on folders, binders, and sundry supplies that’ll be lost in week anyway.

The only time I can recall feeling this happy for school related reasons was when late August meant back to college time. I attribute it to the feeling of impending freedom I felt. Right now, I’m less than 24 hours from freedom… freedom to go to work and know that from 8:45 through 3:00, my kids are in one place for recurring days and weeks, with no ride or pickup needed midday. Just off in the morning, and clear sailing until late afternoon when there’s an after school program. What’s more, next week, it will be exactly the same thing. And the week after that. And the week after that. For months on end, my days will be more predictable. Including their transit time, and barring any calls from the principal, school nurse, or school disciplinarian, I can rely on seven hours of just work time. It just took me five minutes to type that sentence because I was laughing too much to keep my fingers on the keyboard.

I won’t be spending days relaxing in the backyard, gardening, or jogging midday. I really am this stupid-happy at the mere thought of sitting in my office sure in the knowledge my 12 year old is accounted for, for nearly a full business day each day. No one can call and ask me something his father answered two seconds before. No one can call three times to ask if I take them bowling, to a movie, to Six Flags. It will be bliss. I may finally get work done. I’m especially looking forward to nearly eight tattle-free hours, since people in my office usually don’t unravel into whinefests of allegations over missing Wii controllers. They also won’t normally race to the laser printer tackling each other to make sure they got the last copy of whatever was sitting there.

There’s a bit of delusion tucked inside my euphoria, a little inflated optimism. There’s something so promising about all the clean binders, untorn folders, and unchewed pen caps. I know in a week this stuff will all look like it was run over by a truck. I know my color coding system for each subject will be totally ignored. Well I shouldn’t say totally. Son1 will ignore it. Son2, Felix to his brother’s Oscar, will take two weeks to develop his own system which will be so elaborate it will look like DNA sequencing while making mine look like three patterns of Garanimals characters. I know I’m going to curse under my breath like a sailor each time a project assignment comes home. I know the wonderfully laid out soccer and tutoring schedule balance will be shot to hell in three weeks, max. But all this can’t kill my buzz. I’m like those people who rack up New Years resolutions that they know are futile but doggedly make them each year.

I also just remembered that as if all that wasn’t enough, this Sunday, church school starts up again. So now we can sit and listen to the service without squirming kids forcing the most highly unchristian thoughts in our heads. September bonus!

It’s official, Mommy’s in her happy place… all week.

No WE don't have homework, YOU do

Months back I talked about how being a parent causes psychosis. We begin to speak about ourselves in third person, in out-of-Mommy-body references. While watching the news this morning, I saw a story about getting kids ready for college. Now mine are just middle school-aged, but there was one item that caught my ear. It scared me, because I thought, yet again, I was going down the personality disorder path. The reporter called me out on that fact that I have, at some point, become more than one person in my head. Or I've taken to the royal "we." So am I crazy? Pretentious? No, worse... Oh my God I think I am becoming a helicopter parent.

Points #1 and 2 of this rocket-science list of tips covered buying used textbooks to save money and not encouraging your college student to use credit cards to their max. It's true my first reaction was, "Really? Someone got paid to write this list? And they had to find an 'expert' to interview for these pearls of wisdom." But then I heard, "Stop saying we." And I froze. "You make them less independent. You make their work appear to be yours too." I DO do that. Ugh. "Then you get upset they do nothing for themselves." Hmmm. Maybe this guy was on to something.

This week, I was trying to desperately to put a dent in the Summer reading assignments. Wait, I  take that back. I was trying to make sure a dent was put in the Summer reading work- THEIR Summer reading. So why was I was chasing around Son2 two days ago for his identified theme in "Hank the Cowdog?" And why did Son1's "Tuck Everlasting" journal entries seem an everlasting nightmare? They read, they actually enjoyed the books, and each are reading a second without accompanying essay (praise God). So my work as parent was done, right? I made sure they had what they needed by way of books and URL of their assignment summaries. Beyond that, why did I stress more than they did? Why was this a "we" situation? Why do we do this to ourselves? And BTW at this moment I'm speaking about you and I as the "we," in the hope a reader or two does this also so I'm not alone in liberally-used royal we-land.

Summer reading is fine. Summer reading assignments, however, are just really sick jokes by teachers. They know working mothers are daydreaming of back to school time. They're reminding us that we should be careful what we wish for, given that school projects will come with blissfully-routine school schedules. But these vacation assignments become albatrosses over our heads. I mean, how the Hell am I supposed to have time to do anything the rest of the summer like clean the garage, read, or, well, blog about how much I hate sumer reading assignments if YOU, not we, YOU two don't finish these (bleep)ing things. Do you two little morons think I can just sit down and crank this blog out like a madwoman on a rant? Ok, bad rhetorical question.

School is just around the corner. For some of you, it may have started. Then all "We Hell" breaks loose. I start slipping in to plural like crazy. "We need to get poster board... We need to study for the Math test... We need to check the online homework page." WHAT? No WE don't. You do! I've got enough going on to lose my mind without some societal pressure to co-construct every shoe box diorama.

Because that's it, isn't it? We feel like we'll be looked upon as some inadequate non-caring parent if the stuff is not done, and done well. If we stopped "we"ing every responsibility our kids have, they may not care. (No way!) They may not do it. (Ruh 'ro Raggy) They may fail. (Gulp) But are we trying to prevent them failing, or trying to be sure they know we think it's important?... and trying to make sure everyone else, from teacher to soccer coach, knows we really do care?

So I kept on going back in my head today to the college-student check list guy, and his "Stop saying we" comment. Tonight, when Son1 sat at the laptop he has literally tried to break instead of finishing his essay while down the Shore, the hubs and I nudged, coerced, reminded. (OK, let's be serious, we screamed & carried on until he sat there.) But then, once he was there, I decided it was now my time. I wanted to write. I wanted to read some blogs, then fire up the Kindle. I had a Skinny Girl Margarita with my name on it.

So sorry Son1, I'm picking tonight to push you out of the essay-nest. "We" aren't doing anything as a "we" other than sharing oxygen. "You" will be left to do your work. Make it good, because it's your grade. It's a reflection on you, not on me (as I still need to remind myself).  Me? I've got a Girl with the Dragon Tattoo waiting for me for two weeks now. She and I have a long-overdue date, so "we" will be spending some bonding time tonight.

Anatomy of a School Project

It starts innocently enough. Your child is given the task of picking a place, a person, a mammal, etc. to write about. Said “writing assignment” is undoubtedly teamed with a “creative portion.” By project’s end, one of these two elements will become the bane of your existence. Behold this NJ mom’s descent into madness.

Step One: Selection Process
4th Grade state report:   He could have selected my beloved-NJ, MS perhaps where PopPop lives, Maryland where his sister lives. But why pick someplace we (I) may actually have knowledge of? That’s just silly. Let’s pick a state where we have no friends, so we can enjoy this learning opportunity. And the winner is… Oklahoma?

I now present to you the dialogue over the course of 10 days…

Step Two: “Independent” Research
Did you read your state book yet? “No.” Did you read your state book yet? “No.” Did you read your state book yet? “What book?” Sit down, read the OK book, and get ready to do the answers. “I have a book?” PLEASE PLEASE just read… the… darn (alright, damn) book… NOW. “why do you have to yell at me?”

Day 11 of my captivity…

Step Three: How’s It Going In There?
(Mutter this section’s title 4 times, before walking over, neck tightening) What are you doing? “What? Oh, my report.” Really? Is your report on Oklahoma or on Canada’s Labrador province since that's what's occupying you now? Let me just finish folding this laundry and I’ll help you. (insert “du du dunnnnn” noise)

Step Four: Um, Maybe This Would Be Good Idea?
I really think these answers should be complete sentences. “Nu-UH.” Ok, fine. “Don’t say ‘fine’ because whenever you say it doesn’t mean it’s really ‘fine.’”

Two days elapse during the arc of this phase alone:
Um, you seem to be struggling on this part. I mean, drawing postcards for someplace you’ve never been is hard. You’re maybe about ½ way done and it’s due day after tomorrow. “Ok Mom but you can’t give me the answers.” OH- I know THAT. I'll give you some choices, but you have to decide. What would YOU put on OK postcards: A horse, an octopus, or a polar bear? Next question: What souvenir would you bring back from OK? (and you need to draw it, honey): a jet propelled rocket ship, a manatee in a Hawaiian shirt, or a lasso?— Good, moving right along. Zip it- you can color it later let’s keep moving.

Step Five: Hey- I Know What We (I Mean You) Can Do!
Basically just the same as Step Four, only a day later. Tensions are running high, with increasing urgency, decreasing patience, and depleted Chardonnay. Desperation sets in as you watch your child struggle over sticker selection, the finer nuances of plagiarism, and an intense need to watch everything else in room. Compulsively, you are now shifting chair to 3” from the child, asking for the pen, and turning paper toward you. You may not even realize it. You are heading into the next and final phase, and you are now on the Due Date Eve.

Step Six: Well maybe I DO know what I'm talking about
Oh for the LOVE of GOD JUST LISTEN TO ME! Just trust me. Really, it’s due tomorrow. 11 hours from now. I know you don’t want to do it this way but I did 4th grade already and I was good at it. Now—please---hand---me---the—crayon. Mommy is just going to help you color this section. What do you mean you left your crayons at school? Whatever- grab one of the extra boxes. Your brother did what with them? But why would he melt six boxes of crayons in the backyard? Forget it, I don’t want to know. Faster idea—I mean better idea. Of course a computer print collage is fine. No prob. (Agitation brewing. Eyes wild) Ok, now please step away so I can glue stick this please. I said please. I said move. I said glue stick. Don’t let the glue stick dropppp….. Damn it! Eric!!! Get the glue stick out of the dog’s mouth-- He’s coming your way!

Look, I know you’re tired. “no, I’m NOT!” I am and you are. “NO I AM NOT! I JUST HATE OKLAHOMA!” Well who told you to pick Oklahoma? Huh!? You think I’m loving Oklahoma now? I don’t care if we never set foot there—as long as you set foot in your classroom tomorrow with this, we never even have to think about Oklahoma! Now wipe the dog’s slobber off the glue stick and give it to me. Good. Perfect. Done. Voila! Now roll it up so the dog doesn’t get it. “It will be fine.” No, wrap it. “No, I want to look at it.” Do you remember what happened to your brother’s clay, toothpick covered hedgehog for his book report in 2nd grade when we left the room and forgot the dog was in there. “Oh, yeah.”


Two hours later: Cherubs in bed. Glue dry on paper. Glue off of dog. Project packed up by back pack—elevated. Kids in bed. Ahhhh.
Ps. I’m so excited. We got an A. Fabulous. Now on to the 6th grade Mongolia report.